


The Garden of Providence

by grabmotte



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, metaphorical trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he meets a young Porthos who is ready to leave the Court of Miracles behind Captain Tréville must decide whether he wants to reap or sow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Garden of Providence

_The gallows are made of yew_ , Captain Tréville thought detachedly as his lieutenant prattled on about training exercises and his views about prospective recruits. _The foundations are stone, but the all important bar is made of yew_. Tréville had long mastered the art of drowning out the man's usually distractingly monotone voice and continued his thoughts uninterrupted. _In a way they are simply another kind of tree in the King's garden and certainly put to more constant use than anything else in it._

Tréville had spent the early hours of the day listening to the king argue arboretums and ornamental trees with the man responsible for the royal gardens. What it had come down to in the end was a victory for the king who had valiantly defended his enthusiasm for a newly imported, fan-leaved tree with a fruit that promised to stink up the whole palace come fall, and pure, torturous boredom for Tréville.

Tréville had never understood what the king saw in these exotic trees that never quite bloomed to his satisfaction and died quickly. Yet, Louis XIII was the king of France. And if the King of France wanted a useless lawn ornament that attracted wasps and never produced anything but inedible fruit he would have it.

So Tréville had had to listen to the discussion going to and fro for hours until the king finally accepted that he was supposed to attend a hanging which otherwise would have to be significantly delayed which was pretty impolite to the poor intended victims and would upset the crowd. It was also what the captain had originally come to the king for, and what had depressed him even more than any dead ornamental tree.

It was not one of his favourite obligations to have to attend a public hanging basically whenever the King chose to attend one (which was the case whenever the cardinal suggested to the king that it was prudent to do so) but as he prided himself on being a man of duty he would never shirk from it.

Presently Tréville had just gotten that unloved obligation over and done with and was riding through Paris with his lieutenant at his side and a hand full of musketeers on foot spread around them as a guard. And while he was doing so he could not help but think that the barely still corpses had looked like grotesquely fleshy fruit on the misshapen bough of a giant, ghoulish tree. Executions could have a curious effect even on a military man.

Consequently Tréville appreciated the ride as a means to clear his head. Officially he was out to Show Presence. Always a nice thought after a public execution. They were not even looking out for any specific kind of trouble. That was what city watches and the regular soldiers were for. All they were supposed to do was look suitably severe and impressive. Tréville need not even do this parade job himself. In fact, he had much, much more important work waiting for him on his desk, but no one wanted to be the one to remind him.

So to appease his conscience and that of his staff he pretended to be discussing issues of importance with his lieutenant. But in fact he was simply riding around Paris without a clear aim. They were just crossing a plaza in which a small crowd had gathered in front of market stalls and Tréville was blissfully unaware of what his lieutenant was trying to tell him, while he himself was remembering the snaps and the sick twist of the rope and the creaking wood. 

Then someone screamed. A shout of "thieves!" hung above the crowd and at least half a dozen people joined in a chorus when they noticed they too had been robbed. 

As the musketeers looked about almost at once they spotted the retreating forms of what appeared to be three kids in their late teens in the mouth of an alleyway, a petite blonde girl and two tall, dark boys. They were only sloppily hiding their excited grins, suspiciously walking down the street basically right next to Tréville's soldiers! The cheek of it! The underworld of Paris apparently was not impressed by their show of force when they were committing crimes right under the musketeers' noses. 

The soldiers' hands immediately flew to the hilts of their swords, but they had the presence of mind to turn to their officers first before they sprang into action.

Tréville did not need to remind them to try not to kill anybody. These were his standing orders in cases such as this. The thieves were just kids and if they the musketeers wanted to retrieve what they had taken they even might need one of them if the others managed to slip away.

With a nod from their captain the musketeers took off, shouting and shoving to clear a way to their quarry, which of course, elegantly alerted the thieves. Musketeers were not known for their ability to keep a low profile, but somehow Tréville felt they could at least have tried. The grins vanished off the thieves' faces when they spotted the soldiers heading for them and instead of walking they made a dash down the alleyway.

The musketeers were right after them.

Tréville and his lieutenant had more trouble navigating their horses through the excited crowd who stupidly refused to part quickly enough, but eventually reached the alley where they could finally spur their horses into a run.

The kids were fit and had a head start. They had a good chance of escaping into one of those passages only thieves and beggars knew, or vanishing into a crowd. They were not encumbered by heavy weapons or armour and the boys had long legs, but the blond girl was a tiny thing and it soon became obvious that the soldiers would catch her if not her accomplices.

It was then that the bigger boy noticed a rather sturdy looking broom leaning against a wall, took it, turned around, and made a stand in the middle of the street. The girl turned her head to look once she went past him but the other boy grabbed her hand and dragged her along. 

That left the boy alone in the street with four fully armed musketeers in their dress coats spoiling for a fight after spending an excruciatingly boring day uselessly standing around and parading. 

A couple of seconds later one of them flew into the mud after receiving a face-full of birch-broom. 

The boy, being outnumbered, had begun on the defensive, testing out what the musketeers would do. They hadn't appeared to be suitably intimidated by the youngster with a broom and advanced on him, which was when he switched to attack and thrashed them. Soundly.

The boy kept them moving, ducking from fast attacks, feints towards their knees and swings to their groins. And one of them lost his sword after a particularly brutal blow to his hand.

The lieutenant meant to charge ahead to their aid, but Tréville stopped him with a wave of his hand. They would sit and watch: 

The boy's style was that of a brawler: untrained, yet not unskilled. And here he was making fools of four of the king's very own elite guard regiment. 

Sure, the musketeers were hindered by their task to not injure him too badly in order take him alive, but that was what fists and pommels and the flats of the blade were for. 

The fight had gone on for almost a minute, yielding not too much credit to the king's musketeers, when Tréville decided to put them all out of their misery by firing a musket shot. The fighters froze. Tréville took his pistol and aimed it at their thief.

"That's enough!" he barked. "Stop playing!" He left it deliberately unclear who he was addressing, allowing both sides to keep at least a shred of their dignity intact. 

The boy was no fool. He did not mess with guns when they were pointed directly at him at this range. Either way his friends must be long gone and safe by now. There was no need to keep on fighting, unless he had a death wish. So he didn't. 

The musketeers were immediately upon him. Two of them seized his arms and dragged him a couple of steps forward to their captain and he stumbled and fell to his knees. Immediately a musketeer wrenched his arms across his back while the boy howled in pain and indignity.

Tréville immediately stepped in. 

"There is no need to break his arms" he snapped. "Let him stand."

What were they thinking? If it really shamed them so to have been made to look foolish by a kid with a broom they should have fought cleverer, or take a lesson not to underestimate opponents armed with household tools. Perhaps he should consider arranging a training session with one of Old Serge's cast-iron pans1. Tréville would make sure that the pans were the only ones who enjoyed it .

The musketeers obeyed, let go of his arms, and shakily the boy rose to his feet, reflexively grabbing at where he had been hurt. The two musketeers stepped back but kept a firm hand on his shoulders and the boy glowered at them. It was probably part of his attempting to appear calm and confident in the face of disaster. But the look in his eyes beneath the obvious pain revealed his anxiety at being caught and facing what he must expect to be a not too rosy fate.

Tréville took the time he allowed their champion broom fighter to compose himself to look him over. 

He appeared to be about 18, tall and surprisingly broad-shouldered for a thief. A protector to judge by his looks and his actions. And despite the obvious anxiety his stance was defiant. He was daring them to ask where his friends had taken off, daring them to beat it out of him if they must.

Tréville took pride in his belief that he would never be able to see only the criminal in one so young and brave. He knew what created the children of the Court of Miracles. He could only guess at the amount of young talent Paris washed down its gutters each day because of the shortcomings of the parents. And even more than talent he saw courage in this one, loyalty, possibly a streak of honesty and definitely a soldier's heart. He saw more of that which should be nurtured than what needed to be stamped out. _We reap what we sow_ , Tréville thought dejectedly.

And he decided to take a gamble. 

"What is your name, son?" 

He nudged his horse closer, until the boy was standing right in front of his left boot. 

"Captain Tréville!" The boy sure had made an impression on the musketeers for his lieutenant to feel the need to call out a warning. 

But there was no need for Tréville to feel threatened. If anything the lieutenant's shout had only further driven the fight out of their thief. At Tréville's approach his confidence faltered. He looked just the tiniest bit more terrified. Or was it awe that brightened and widened the boy's eyes? Apparently the name had struck a chord with the boy. So Tréville repeated it.

"I am Captain Tréville of the king's musketeers", and he asked again for his name.

The boy looked down to steel himself, raised his eyes to meet the captain's and in them Tréville found swirling a mixture of apprehension and something Tréville didn't dare yet describe as hope. Rather speculation.

"Name's Porthos", the boy answered. No, to keep calling him a 'boy' was not fair. He was a young man, visibly on the cusp of making a life-defining decision. And Tréville would help him make that decision.

"Just Porthos?" 

"Just Porthos, sir."

By the looks of him that was likely to be the truth. 

And where had that 'sir' come from? Probably from the same place as the gleam in his eyes when he glanced at the shoulder guards and the blue cloaks. Even though he was in deep trouble he could not suppress his boyish admiration for the principles represented by the symbols that the musketeers in their as yet short existence had made themselves a byword for: power, nobility, loyalty and a bravery which some called foolhardiness.

The right to ride a horse, carry a sword and fire a musket certainly helped, but everything about the young man's attitude confirmed that Tréville's first assessment was correct, and that he was dealing with a thief who would much rather be something else, if only someone showed him how to.

Tréville was once more struck by his appearance. The physical difference between them could not be more pronounced. The old, weathered captain and the lost street kid with all his life to squander: One in dull, patched-up rags standing in the muddy streets in worn-out boots; the other in a bright blue cloak on a tall stallion with its gleaming coat of black. Yet, there was something in the young man that the captain recognised. 

Porthos was a young man who needed direction more than he was a criminal who needed to rot in a jail cell or to be forced into penal servitude. And France needed her soldiers more than her slaves. 

You could transplant a tree that had taken root in darkness, or you could cut the roots and watch it rot.

"You know, I could always use men who are able to take on a quartet of France's finest." 

The musketeers exchanged shamefaced looks and the lieutenant quizzically furled his brow at his captain, but Tréville only had eyes for the young man right in front of him. 

'Men', not 'boys', he said. 'I', not 'France' or 'the King' or any of those other words Porthos probably never had a reason to believe in, yet. 

From the way Porthos' eyes went wide Tréville knew he had been right. An irresistible feeling of pride visibly chased away the trepidation in Porthos’ bones, allowing him to straighten his back, and on his face speculation finally gave way to hope.

"You wouldn't be disappointed, sir."

"As you can imagine, however", Tréville continued more gravely, "I cannot take up thieves."

This had Porthos study his dirty shoes for a moment, but when he again met Tréville's gaze that look of hope had been replaced by one of determination. 

"You won't have to, sir." he said. And if anyone had been misunderstood as to what he meant he made himself clear when he continued: "But I'm afraid I won't have the money to buy a musket or a fancy sword or any of that stuff."

Not only that, Porthos would certainly have it harder than most recruits who already knew how to fence or ride. But he did not look like something like that would deter him. On the contrary.

"Come to my office at the barracks by Thursday and we will discuss this." _Give him a day to say to goodbye. Don't give him long enough to get cold feet_. "You have my word of honour that no one will try to stop or arrest you. You have an appointment with me."

"We're letting him go … sir?" The exchange had shocked the lieutenant into questioning his captain in public. The man was so taken aback even the honorific was a hastily added afterthought.

"Yes", Tréville replied curtly. He would address this slip of discipline later, privately. 

Tréville turned back to Porthos: "Do we have an agreement?"

As if deliberately to underline the lieutenant's faux-pas the boy responded with a natural sounding "Yes, sir!", even indicating a small bow with a nod of his head – all before he wonderingly turned to walk away from the strange encounter with the captain of the musketeers, his steps becoming ever quicker, as if he could barely believe his luck.

The risk that Porthos would not return (with all of his belongings slung over his broad shoulders, an earnest pledge on his lips and possibly whatever his friends had taken today in his hand) was smaller than the risk of cutting down a sapling grown crooked simply due to lack of sunlight before the oak had a chance to raise its crown toward the sky.

The lieutenant could lodge a complaint if he wanted to, but Tréville knew he wouldn't. This would not be the first recruit the regiment had acquired by rather unorthodox methods. In the end, no one would mind. No one ever did. Tréville was convinced even the soldier who had been sent into the dirt would not feel the sting should young Porthos ever show up at his barracks. Better to be defeated with a broom by a fellow musketeer than by a street rat.

And better to plant an oak than to fell a sapling.

* * *

1 The musketeers would always remember the day that Porthos joined, for it was around the same time that their officers invented what one unlucky jokester later dubbed "the pan of pain".


End file.
